


Mickey's Encounter

by ashipnerd



Category: Disney - All Media Types, Disney Cartoons (Classic), Epic Mickey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-17 02:17:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15451200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashipnerd/pseuds/ashipnerd
Summary: "It's one thing to imagine one's future, and another to see it..." -Father Zachary Hale Comstock, Bioshock Infinite.On a cold night, Mickey Mouse arrives at a hidden and mysterious location in a far more twisted version of Wasteland. With no sign of Oswald, and no one wanting to explain what's going on, Mickey turns to the only one who seems to have anything to say at all.Himself.





	Mickey's Encounter

****

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Mickey's Encounter

Night time in the woods was always dark, everyone knew that. With almost no moon or star light being able to cut through the thick trees above, ground level was almost always stygian. Everyone knew that. Even after all the leaves had fallen off through autumn and winter, and said leaves were all scattered across the ground, it made little difference. Everyone knew that. The forest was always quiet; without any animals to inhabit it, it was harder to find a time when it wasn't quiet. Everyone knew that; none of these were something that was easy to forget. What few remembered about this place, were the rail lines that ran a distance to a no longer marked location. The rails were old, only rarely being used; and never had enough operation to keep them maintained.

On this night though, a night one might at first think was normal, the long undisturbed quiet was slowly and easily violated. The harsh chuffing of a worn steam engine slowly began to thunder through the trees like a lost soul. The train was moving at speed, the hot steam moving the pistons and turning the wheels. The engine began to quiet as the throttle was reduced, then cut; followed by the hiss of brake pressure, before an ear-piercing screech followed as the aged wheels skidded on the rusted rails. 

The train eventually was brought to a halt, and a lone cartoon mouse jumped out of the cab; he Looked forward down the perpendicular path almost completely covered by fallen leaves, and at the end of it Mickey saw his target. It was an old single roomed cabin, looking almost like it had been left to rot. He knew better though. His counterpart knew he was here, and Mickey knew he had been expected.

Starting up the path, the leaves crunched under his feet as he walked away from the steaming train before arriving at the porch. He paused and took a look at the cabin now that he was closer. The walls were covered in creeping foliage, and parts of the roof looked like they were ready to cave in. Most of the paint that was visible was pealing or chipped away. The door wasn't locked, and looked to be just hanging on hinges that were more rust than they were metal. 

Before he opened the old cracked door, he closed his eyes for a moment to resurface recent memories. Taking himself back to when he had arrived at this universe's version of Wasteland, he remembered finding a depressed Guss, a broken and empty Ortensia, an army of confused and unorganized bunny children, and then there was the other forgotten characters who had all the hope drained from their eyes. No one would talk to him, no matter who he asked; the only exception being Guss and even he barely said anything. The Phantom Blot and Mad Doctor were gone, but so was Oswald. No one would tell him why. All Guss had told him was where to go, and where he could find a train to take him there. 

But then he stopped talking to Mickey, and wouldn't say anything else. Having no answers, and no one willing to give him any, he took the only lead he was given. That had brought him to here; it had brought him to now. He blinked once, took a deep breath, grabbed the door handle, and turned it. The door screeched open, and he saw someone at the otherside of the room, sitting in a chair.

"So you're this world's version of me?" Mickey asked the figure near the window in the darkened room; the pale moon shining gauntly through it and giving just enough light to make out the outline of a mouse.

"Yes," came the cold collected reply. Despite the unnatural darkness of this night, and the nature of the forest itself, the moon was still just bright enough for Mickey to make out some of the room's details. A table by the wall, a chair by the window, thinned holes scattered spraticley across the ground, and something that looked like a bookshelf in the corner. There was splintered and cracked wood flooring, and sharp grooves across the walls, floor and ceiling. 

What had happened here?

It seemed as if the figure could sense the eerie silence in the tortured atmosphere. There was an ominous creaking and growing from the chair as he rose to its feet. "Come," the figure motioned, walking toward the shelves. 

Mickey swallowed and hesitantly approached. As he got close, he noticed that these shelves did not contain books, but something else. Some kind of agged flasks made from involuntarily stained glass sealed with thick aged corks. A thick dark liquid floated inside the flasks. 

The sinister repealment the flask radiated was overridden by Mickey's curiosity. He swallowed again as he choked on his own words, not sure if he had the will to say anything. He then took a deep breath, his eyes not wondering from the flasks. 

"What are those?" he finally breathed. It did little to calm his nerves as the figure let out a quiet breath of his own. Instead of replying, the figure slowly reached out and took one of the flasks in paw. He then turned, toward the table this time, and walked to it. 

The figure placed the flask on a small metal frame obviously designed to hold it without it tipping over. After that, he turned to the mouse, motioning to the flask and asked: "I assume you know what this is?"

Mickey didn't have an immediate answer. The liquid did indeed seem familiar, but he was unable to determine where or how. His brow furrowed, concentrating. It was difficult to make out black in the dark, but now that the flask was on the table and in better light, if only slightly, more details could be made out. What he observed sent a wave of turmoil through his mind and stomach. He was stunned to realise that this liquid was dripping upwards, small drops forming near the center of the flask and dripping straight up before disappearing. A process that was all too familiar.

He glanced to the figure, and saw the same process occuring on his body. His arms, his head; all dripping up in tandem with the liquid in the flask. The figure was right, he knew exactly what this was.

His eyes narrowed. This was ink; but not just any ink. The only place to get this kind of ink was to collect it from the Phantom Blot. But why would anyone, especially another version of himself, want to collect any small amount of something like that? Let alone enough to fill an entire bookshelf? He turned to the figure that was himself for an explanation, and once again he seemed to know what was on Mickey's mind. 

"Do you know what happens to a toon, when it's exposed to too much thinner? Mickey?" The figure asked, setting his sterral gase on the mouse.

Mickey opened his mouth to reply, but then closed it; not sure how to respond. He had used paint and thinner more times than he could count in his recent history. The power of the Magic Brush, in certain hands, could either destroy or create entire worlds. And while Mickey was aware of this fact, he had never actually used thinner on a toon before. On his surroundings, yes. On some of the Ink Blots, yes. On a toon though, never. 

"I thought as much," the figure quietly lamented. He reached for a glass and iron object and picked it up by its almost wire-like handle. It was a lantern. Mickey heard the quiet squeak from the small door on the lantern's side being opened, then the distinctive scratch of a match being lit sounded off. The lit match head was held inside the door and the lantern came to life. The match was then extinguished with a flick of the wrist and thrown to the floor, and Mickey's eyes widened as the flickering light of the diluted lantern lit up the table. 

Using the lantern as a light source, the figure leaned down and pulled what almost looked like an old doctor's bag out from under the table. It was set upon the table and opened with no haste or emotion. The figure then reached in and pulled out a syringe and needles of varying sizes and shapes before laying them across the table. 

"When a toon is exposed to too much thinner, it removes the paint from their bodies and reduces them to a hollow and empty frame of themselves. Unlike the Phantom Blot which turns the colorless body to stone, thinner pulls out the colors but lets the toon's sketched design remain. Ever seen the sketch an artist creates before he adds the color? It's all the toon is reduced to."

The figure then reached for the syringe and picked it up. The needle was long, longer than Mickey's hand, and thicker than what the average vaccine used. The figure stuck the needle down through the cork that sealed the flask and began to withdraw a portion of the ink. 

"When a toon is left thinned out in such a way," the figure continued, "it understandably leaves them a holl0w empty shell of themself. Sometimes, even opposite versions of themselves. I should know, I've seen it. Lived it."

That confused Mickey for a moment. "You don't look thinned out now. How did you come back?" he asked the figure.

"I didn't," he responded. Mickey stopped breathing for a moment when he heard that. "I'm sure you're familiar with what happened when the Phantom Blot pulled you from your world? As you probably remember, it almost merges with your body, and you become part Phantom Blot. I eventually discovered that because I'm part Phantom Blot, I can fill the parts of my body lost from thinner exposure, with ink from the Blot. It's not exactly a viable replacement though. Without any paint to sustain the ink, it drips away and leaves me empty again, so I have to keep injecting myself with ink just to keep me from turning completely."

As if to emphasize this point, he pushed the needle into his wrist and pressed on the syringe. Mickey felt a chill run up his spine as he saw the back liquid slowly disappear into the figure's body. With the syringe empty, the figure set the needle back into the bag and closed it. Mickey gulped before asking:

"What do you mean, 'from turning completely'?"

The figure turned back toward Mickey; his eyes set on the mouse, void of any emotion. "Being filled with ink is better than being completely empty. There's a portion of Wasteland south of here, it was completely thinned out during the Thinner Disaster. The toons living there were discovered to still exist, somehow; their bodies' outlines were there but their paint wasn't. They had been turned into monsters. Claws and teeth made of pure solidified thinner were notable features on all of them."

"Well, what happened to them?"

"What do you think? When the Thinner Disaster occured, Oswald declared Martial Law and founded the Military Police, using his 420 bunny children to enforce his rule. When they discovered the ones still living there, it lead the thinned to attack what remained of the struggling Wasteland. The thinned out toons were hunted down, but because they were immune to thinner, they had to be caught and captured. They're still there in the south, trapped in the cages. No one is sure how long the cages will hold them exactly; the bars are made from a rare, thinner resistant paint." 

"Why weren't they completely thinned out in the first place?"

"No one knows; and no one would dare get close enough to try to figure it out. Not even the Mad Doctor is that mad." By now the figure had placed the bag back under the table and returned to his chair. Folding his hands on his lap, he looked back to Mickey.

"What happened to Oswald?" Mickey asked.

"He's gone."

Mickey swallowed the lump in his throat. "He's dead?"

"Far from it," the figure lamented. "He's back in my version of the toon world; most likely took my place as Disney's mascot."

"He left?..." Mickey asked shocked. "...and he just left you and everyone else behind?"

The figure looked at Mickey strangely. 

"Of course he did," the figure nearly spat. "When he found that I, or more, WE, caused the thinner disaster and created the Blot; do you really think he would just FORGIVE us?"

"Well, no;" Mickey replied with a shake of his head, "but I mean everyone? His friends? His children? Ortensia?!"

The figure kept his face for a while, only responding after a moment.

"Remember when we defeated the Phantom Blot? How our heart was freed, but Oswald was the one who caught it? In my world, he didn't dare give it back; the love of millions was too great a temptation for a forgotten toon like him. He took it and shoved it into his own chest; afterword, he set off the fireworks and took off through the portal back to Yen Sid's workshop. Knowing him, he probably took my place, and is probably now Disney's mascot. No one remembers me anymore. I'm just a forgotten toon; unlike when we turned 60 though, we can't reverse the spell no matter what we do. Oswald though? Everyone remembers him. He'll never be forgotten. After all; 'We all must remember one thing, that it was all started with a Lucky Rabbit'. Right?"

Mickey quietly stared off into space in an almost futile attempt to process everything he had heard. So Oswald had left, Wasteland was without a leader, the toons here had either been thinned out or were without any hope, this world's version of himself was forced to inject himself with ink to stop him from becoming a monster, and one of his father's most famous sayings had been altered because of it all. It sure was a lot to take in. 

Both Mickeys were quiet for a few moments, before the Mickey that had entered asked the figure something else.

"What will you do now?" 

The figure was quiet a while longer before he gave his reply. "What I've been doing. Staying away, and keeping myself like I am for as long as I c~OUGH!" The figure nearly dropped to his knees unable to finish. Coughs raged out from his lungs, wet and thick; like built up congestion. All Mickey could do was watch with concern and confusion; having no clue what was happening.

A glob of thick black ink poured out of the figure's mouth and onto his hand, running down onto the floor. Mickey slowly approached, and placed his hand on the figure's shoulder.

"Are you-" he stopped as he felt his counterpart's shoulder allow more give than it should have. It squished, and he could feel the hot ink through his glove. Mickey held a look of absolute horror as he pulled his hand back and found it covered in a thick black substance; it almost held the texture of crude oil.

And the coughs continued.

The figure was on his hands and knees, ink pouring out of his mouth and onto the floor. His body shook, quaking as he felt his body boil from the inside out. He felt weak, oh so very weak. His bones barely held him up, but he refused to die yet. His mind then registered that his body mass had begun to liquify. He felt it drip, then run, then pour down his body as it all pooled beneath him.

Then after a while the coughs stopped for a moment, and he was able to breath. He looked to Mickey and almost couldn't see his look of pure horror through the ink that covered his eyes. He brought a hand up and tried to brush some of it out of his eyes; but with little success.

"What was that?" Mickey asked, barely able to speak after witnessing whatever had just happened. 

"That," his counterpart choked out, "is what happens when a toon tries to sustain itself with nothing but Phantom Blot ink." He got up, his feet making wet splashes as he stood in a pool of what was moments ago himself. The ink still covered his body; nigh, he was SATURATED in the stuff. Yet, it simultaneously clung to his body like lint to a jacket.

And it wasn't going away.

"I don't have long, I'm afraid," the figure said, his eyes still covered by the ink. "My body lacks the necessary paint needed to keep oneself alive in this world. When I inject myself with ink, some of my paint gets removed in the process. After a while, all the paint gets removed, and all that's left is ink; and like I said before, ink is a poor subsitute." 

The figure then sat back down in the chair by the window, soaked in the black substance. His short walk had left a trail on the floor, the glow of the moon giving the puddles a soft and muted glare. Mickey looked at the figure, and blinked with both a confused, and yet saddened look.

"You're dying?..." It almost wasn't a question.

"Well, in simple terms, yes," the figure whispered back.

"What do you mean?" Mickey asked, his head cocked to the side.

"Every time I injected myself, a small part of me was lost. I'm more Blot now than I am Mickey Mouse. All that's left of the real me now, is the shape of my body, and memories I've had." He brought a hand up to rub his temple, but stopped when he heard a liquid noise. He opened his eyes and noticed multiple thick lines of ink rising off of his hand and arm. He looked to see his other arm do the same, and he was sure the rest of him was about to follow.

"It's started," he breathed. He turned to look at Mickey. "If you get the chance, tell everyone I'm sorry I failed them. There's a letter on that table over there," he pointed. "If you ever meet Oswald... well, MY Oswald, could you give it to him?"

The figure's body at this point was slowly changing, most of it was now dripping upwards. Mickey simply nodded in response, and for the first time since he had arrived, he saw the figure smile.

"Than-HAK~COUGH-" 

The figure dubbed over, clutching his body as the pain returned. The ink flowed down his face, form, and chair; the coughs and wheezing ripping through his chest. Mickey took a step closer, only for the figure to hold up his hand, beckoning him to stay away. Some of the ink dripped up, the rest flowed downward. He fell out of his chair and onto the ground, curling into a ball as the pain continued to intensify. 

And it just got worse.

More and more of his body liquified as his condition worsened. As he coughed, more liquid than air entered and exited his mouth. His tears were lost in the thick marking liquid. He let out a drowned scream, another, then on the last one he caved in. In a single moment, what was left of his body completely liquified, merging into a large puddle on the floor.

For a moment, all Mickey could do was stand there in horror. It's one thing to see a toon get thinned out by dip, and another to describe what he had witnessed. He had just seen HIMSELF die in what HAD to be the most painful way to die as a toon. His entire body turning into a hot dark liquid. 

It took a while, but he managed to recover enough to continue. He grabbed the letter the figure wanted him to get to Oswald, and headed back out to the steaming train. 

As he climbed back into the cab, he took one last solom look at the cabin. Then he pulled the throttle open, and started off back toward Wasteland proper. The train started, and Mickey looked down at the letter in his hand. He squeezed it, a level of frustration and disappointment flowing through him. 

He had come here on a whim, and now he had the Wasteland to watch over. First things first. He needed to get this letter to Oswald. He was still remembered, so he should be able to get back to Disneyland. From there, finding Oswald shouldn't be a problem.

With determination in his eyes, Mickey opened up the engine, and thundered off into the night.


End file.
